For a few minutes, they talked about Lulu’s dreams. Karla confided that she sometimes experienced bad dreams herself when the client’s situation was particularly distressing. ‘We’re not automatons. We can’t just switch off at the end of the day. And remember, dreams are useful things. They’re the brain’s way of –’
‘– Processing,’ Lulu finished. ‘I know. But . . .’
‘Doesn’t make it any easier. You just have to remember what I always say. The fact that you over-empathise is hard for you, but it’s great for your clients. You’re able to get right inside their heads in a way other therapists just can’t.’
‘But I didn’t, did I, with Paul?’
‘Oh, Lulu.’
‘I should have known, Karla. I should have known how he was feeling, but I had no inkling. Not a single one!’
‘And now you don’t trust yourself with this new client.’
A long silence. Then, ‘No,’ Lulu whispered.
‘Well, that’s a load of bull! No one’s infallible. You know how many of my clients have completed suicide? Eight. Eight, Lulu! And do I beat myself up about it? You bet! But when all’s said and done, you can’t make decisions for them. All we can do is hope to help. Their lives are their own, to do with as they will. And we have to accept that.’
The metallic flash of a black vehicle went past the window.
Lulu thanked Karla effusively, ended the call, scurried to the kitchen to wash her face, and put on a smile. As she stepped out of the front door into the sun, Nick almost barged into her, coming the other way.
Yvonne was standing leaning back against a Range Rover, arms folded.
‘Let’s see what Lulu has to say about it. Lulu, I’m off to have coffee in town and wondered if you’d like to join me.’
This was a surprise. Lulu didn’t particularly want to spend time with Yvonne, but the chance to escape for a couple of hours was too good to pass up.
‘Oh, uh, yes, that would be lovely,’ Lulu said at the same time as Nick said, ‘No, Lu, you can’t, remember we –’
‘You husband seems to think you have plans,’ interrupted Yvonne drily.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t wait.’ Lulu reached out to rub Nick’s arm. ‘Just let me get my bag and make myself look more presentable, and –’
‘We. Have. Plans,’ Nick said forcefully, catching hold of Lulu’s hand and tucking it through his arm.
‘Nick,’ said Lulu gently. ‘I’d really like to go out for coffee with Yvonne. I’m sure we can postpone whatever you had in mind.’
‘We’re not living in 1860.’ Yvonne snorted. ‘Stopping your wife leaving the house is against the law. It’s called coercive control.’
‘Oh, goodness, no.’ Lulu laughed. ‘Nick’s just a little overprotective sometimes.’
Nick was staring at Yvonne, eyes narrowed.
‘That’s what they all say,’ said Yvonne.
After that, of course, Nick could hardly object to the outing. Lulu quickly got ready, but by the time she returned to the hall, Nick had disappeared.
‘Off in a sulk,’ Yvonne said breezily. ‘Climb aboard.’
On the drive to Langholm, Yvonne cracked open the windows to let the fresh and not-so-fresh country smells blow about the car. ‘I think we rather got off on the wrong foot,’ she said. ‘Tell me about yourself, Lulu.’
So Lulu told her about Braemar Station and her parents and brothers, and her rather feral childhood. Yvonne reciprocated with information about the farm and the cheese-making business which now employed three local people full-time.
‘And how did you meet Nick?’ was Yvonne’s next question.
This was a little embarrassing but also hilarious. Lulu launched into the story.
As she’d approached her thirtieth birthday, Lulu had decided it was about time she saw a bit more of the world than Sydney, where she lived, and Leonora, where she spent all her holidays, so one fine day in October she’d got on a plane to Europe. Jenny and Beth had been horrified that Lulu’s family were ‘letting’ her do this on her own, as if Lulu were nine years old, not twenty-nine. It was a standing joke that Lulu couldn’t be trusted to go to the grocery store without having some sort of disaster befall her, like locking herself out of the truck or losing her purse or, on one unfortunately memorable occasion, the truck actually exploding in the parking lot while she was in the store – although how was it her fault that some malevolently inclined possum had decided to chew through the wiring?
The terrible thing was, the whole Europe trip had been a disaster.
Within two days, she’d managed to lose almost all her belongings. She’d been so seduced by the beauties of Ithaca, by all the smiling faces and friendly shopkeepers, by her charming room at the guest house which was its own little self-contained building in the grounds, with purple bougainvillea round the door, that she’d gone for an evening walk round the harbour and left all her stuff in her room with the door unlocked.
When she got back, everything was gone.
Even the red hairbrush she’d left on the bedside table. She’d had that hairbrush since she was eleven. It had been her silent, sympathetic companion through the acne years, when she’d spent hours sitting at her dressing table mirror gazing at herself in horror, but then she’d pick up the brush and swish it through her hair, her glossy, shiny, straight blonde hair, and somehow it wouldn’t seem so bad. Ridiculously, she cried over the loss of that hairbrush, imagining the poor thing clutched in the hand of some horrible thief.
All she had left was her phone and the euros in her pocket. And her phone was out of charge. And the charger was gone.